The ranch hand had the Tin Star pond scraped, shaped, and scooped a while back and the rains dutifully filled same.
After the piscatorial container was "full", the ole fat boy started wishin' he had built a "dock" out into the water to ease the feeding of the fish therein and for improved observation.
As with the nature of all things, the rains stopped and the water level has been diminishing.
Accordingly, the portly one has been adding a 4x4 section of treated lumber dock one section at a time while ever pursuing the fleeing water's edge.
Now comes the dichotomy between wanting to build more dock, and wanting it to rain to fill the pond back up?????
Ain't it always that way?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Last Day of the Season
The ranch hand hunted during the late 70's in the Sabine River bottom on near a 1000 acre deer hunting lease that was wild and woollie.
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Dress Britches
The range hand sashayed in from the town job yesterday and jus' plunked down in the sun room to enjoy a cold adult beverage while perusing the back pasture with binoculars.
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Terminator
The lunar phase of the moon is the illuminated portion which varies cyclically as the moon orbits the earth. The boundary between the illuminated and the dark portions is called the terminator. (Wickipedia)
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Feet and Pearls
At the ripe age of fifteen, "J" is 72 inches of youthful vigor, gargantuan appetite, and LARGE feet.
The world is his oyster and he is eagerly waiting for the pearl formation process to begin as he enters each new day with a smile, positive attitude, and joy at being alive.
Last year the neophyte hunter bagged his first deer on the ranch by taking a doe. This year the stakes were raised a tad to include one of the several "spikes" that roam the Tin Star.
Last evening near dusk young Daniel Boone very ably planted a .270 projectile that competently initiated the venison sausage ceremony for yet another year.
Cost of the bullet: $1.00
Seeing "J" exhilarated with adrenalin at taking his first buck: PRICELESS!
The world is his oyster and he is eagerly waiting for the pearl formation process to begin as he enters each new day with a smile, positive attitude, and joy at being alive.
Last year the neophyte hunter bagged his first deer on the ranch by taking a doe. This year the stakes were raised a tad to include one of the several "spikes" that roam the Tin Star.
Last evening near dusk young Daniel Boone very ably planted a .270 projectile that competently initiated the venison sausage ceremony for yet another year.
Cost of the bullet: $1.00
Seeing "J" exhilarated with adrenalin at taking his first buck: PRICELESS!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Future
The testosterone swollen neck immediately signaled gender as the sleek, but muscular male silently tiptoed from the demarcation between brush and pasture.
He was an excellent example of conditioning, fortunate genetics, and substantial food supply. However, groceries were not the priority this November afternoon. The breeding season is full bore and feminine companionship was paramount for the young buck.
Nose to the ground and eyes ever trained on the surrounding foliage, the would be suitor gave no notice to the ole ranch hand concealed in the ubiquitous deer blind.
Regardless of the opportunity, a shot was not to be.
Although handsome in presentation, this particular item of ranch inventory was the future. At two to three years of age, the eight points of the white tail's horns gave but promise of later antler glory and a hunting story yet to be told.
Maybe next year?
He was an excellent example of conditioning, fortunate genetics, and substantial food supply. However, groceries were not the priority this November afternoon. The breeding season is full bore and feminine companionship was paramount for the young buck.
Nose to the ground and eyes ever trained on the surrounding foliage, the would be suitor gave no notice to the ole ranch hand concealed in the ubiquitous deer blind.
Regardless of the opportunity, a shot was not to be.
Although handsome in presentation, this particular item of ranch inventory was the future. At two to three years of age, the eight points of the white tail's horns gave but promise of later antler glory and a hunting story yet to be told.
Maybe next year?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wind
The extraction of the kinetic energy from wind and conversion of it into a useful type of energy; thermal, mechanical, or electrical is a worthy endeavor.
The application of wind to deer hunting is a bane to success.
The varmits key on sound and movement. Start shaking every little thing in the woods with a passle of wind and ya got a recipe for hunting failure as the ever elusive forest ruminants will hide in the brush till hell freezes over?
If ya git the ideer that the ole fat boy ain't seen hide nor hair of the trophy buck this morn...ya are on the right track???????
Hmmmm...there is always "tomorrow"!
The application of wind to deer hunting is a bane to success.
The varmits key on sound and movement. Start shaking every little thing in the woods with a passle of wind and ya got a recipe for hunting failure as the ever elusive forest ruminants will hide in the brush till hell freezes over?
If ya git the ideer that the ole fat boy ain't seen hide nor hair of the trophy buck this morn...ya are on the right track???????
Hmmmm...there is always "tomorrow"!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Gobbler Grease
The ole fat boy strolled out the back door this mid-morn and immediately heard the busy cluck of a flock of wild turkey in the nearby tree line.
Easin' back into the house, the hungry hunter slipped a 7mm-08 cartridge into the breech of the Ruger and eagerly awaited a poultry bounty.
Right as rain, the winged varmits walked and flew from the brush in toothless anticipation of the bright yellow corn at the feeder.
Then the suckas clucked their gossip, while dancing their head bobbin' crooked walk to and fro with no rhyme or reason, until they was out of sight in the distant back woods????
Yep, no shot, no meat?
Unloaded the protein collection device and figgered would blast some feathers another day.
Looked back and the teasin' rascals was sash-shayin' back into view as if to tempt the fate of gun powder driven lead yet again?????
Wright City boys know that free groceries don't come to the table every day so the ranch hand ratcheted a bullet in the carbine one mo' time and drew a careful bead on a cocky tom with a seven inch beard.
Squeeze the trigger, which weren't loaded with no sofa pillers, and scratched one male of the gobbler species.
True to their raisin', once the commotion died down, the whole herd of grasshopper wranglers gathered round the dearly departed and held a (clucking) eulogy.
Although not one to be greedy, the country rifleman opted to harvest one of the more succulent looking hens as compliment to the first "victim".
Ranch hand: 2
Turkeys: 0
Heat the grease!
Easin' back into the house, the hungry hunter slipped a 7mm-08 cartridge into the breech of the Ruger and eagerly awaited a poultry bounty.
Right as rain, the winged varmits walked and flew from the brush in toothless anticipation of the bright yellow corn at the feeder.
Then the suckas clucked their gossip, while dancing their head bobbin' crooked walk to and fro with no rhyme or reason, until they was out of sight in the distant back woods????
Yep, no shot, no meat?
Unloaded the protein collection device and figgered would blast some feathers another day.
Looked back and the teasin' rascals was sash-shayin' back into view as if to tempt the fate of gun powder driven lead yet again?????
Wright City boys know that free groceries don't come to the table every day so the ranch hand ratcheted a bullet in the carbine one mo' time and drew a careful bead on a cocky tom with a seven inch beard.
Squeeze the trigger, which weren't loaded with no sofa pillers, and scratched one male of the gobbler species.
True to their raisin', once the commotion died down, the whole herd of grasshopper wranglers gathered round the dearly departed and held a (clucking) eulogy.
Although not one to be greedy, the country rifleman opted to harvest one of the more succulent looking hens as compliment to the first "victim".
Ranch hand: 2
Turkeys: 0
Heat the grease!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Morning Bounty
It's the second Saturday of the 2011 deer season and the predawn sky most resembled dark gray dryer lint pulled into long strands across a slate background.
The coming sun gave promise of its glory by slowly oozing a soft pink into the landscape as it gathered energy for its daily passage across the Tin Star Ranch sky.
Daylight brought the welcome visit of four does slowly walking toward their morning drink at the pond.
A "latecomer" eventually trotted across the pasture in pursuit of her companions, obviously distressed for missing the wake up call.
Thereafter, a dozen turkey hens strolled thru the brush, perused the ubiquitous corn feeder, and clucked their daily gossip to each other as they meandered back into the brush.
No shots fired by the mighty hunter, but all is good and the ranch hand is elated at the bounty of the morning!
The coming sun gave promise of its glory by slowly oozing a soft pink into the landscape as it gathered energy for its daily passage across the Tin Star Ranch sky.
Daylight brought the welcome visit of four does slowly walking toward their morning drink at the pond.
A "latecomer" eventually trotted across the pasture in pursuit of her companions, obviously distressed for missing the wake up call.
Thereafter, a dozen turkey hens strolled thru the brush, perused the ubiquitous corn feeder, and clucked their daily gossip to each other as they meandered back into the brush.
No shots fired by the mighty hunter, but all is good and the ranch hand is elated at the bounty of the morning!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Deer Loafin'
The ranch hand has engaged in deer hunting for nigh on 40 years.
Deer "hunting", or more aptly named deer "working", involves a myriad of laborious activities.
First ya gotta walk all over creation in the woods and find a suitable place to ambush the suckers. Next ya have to haul to that place, or construct on site, a "hiding" spot for military observation of the varmits. Then comes the brush/limb cutting for creation of "shooting lanes", as well as the interminable ritual of filling one's corn feeder with "bait".
The weather is a whole other subject in deer "hunting". Ya got your garden variety cold, and then there is the mind numbing, butt freezing, "why am I here" cold. Yep, rain, insects, snakes, skunks...you name it, deer "hunting" is a male rodeo on many levels.
Fortunately, the ole fat boy's testosterone has diminished sufficiently in dotage for "ego" to allow deer "LOAFIN".
That's right sports fans. We are talking being in the heated sun room, laid back in the recliner, chosen beverage at hand, TV remote nearby, and the always necessary bathroom but a step away. Hell, ya can sneeze, cough, fart, and generally wiggle around as the innocent woodland creatures have no clue that Ruger 7mm-08 death waits behind the windows of the loafin' room.
Course the pretty days still find the chubby one sitting outside for the hunt, but old age and treachery have finally overcome masculine dumass (to a small degree?).
Deer "hunting", or more aptly named deer "working", involves a myriad of laborious activities.
First ya gotta walk all over creation in the woods and find a suitable place to ambush the suckers. Next ya have to haul to that place, or construct on site, a "hiding" spot for military observation of the varmits. Then comes the brush/limb cutting for creation of "shooting lanes", as well as the interminable ritual of filling one's corn feeder with "bait".
The weather is a whole other subject in deer "hunting". Ya got your garden variety cold, and then there is the mind numbing, butt freezing, "why am I here" cold. Yep, rain, insects, snakes, skunks...you name it, deer "hunting" is a male rodeo on many levels.
Fortunately, the ole fat boy's testosterone has diminished sufficiently in dotage for "ego" to allow deer "LOAFIN".
That's right sports fans. We are talking being in the heated sun room, laid back in the recliner, chosen beverage at hand, TV remote nearby, and the always necessary bathroom but a step away. Hell, ya can sneeze, cough, fart, and generally wiggle around as the innocent woodland creatures have no clue that Ruger 7mm-08 death waits behind the windows of the loafin' room.
Course the pretty days still find the chubby one sitting outside for the hunt, but old age and treachery have finally overcome masculine dumass (to a small degree?).
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